


Counting Stars

by spookyknight



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 03:58:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1115221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyknight/pseuds/spookyknight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Standing on a windy beach in Norway, he’s worried that things will fall apart before they begin. They don’t. That happens later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Counting Stars

**Author's Note:**

> A loose adaption of O. Henry’s ‘The Gift of the Magi’ in the holiday spirit. Thanks to aeonish and thedoctordanceswithrose for the betas.

 

_Everything that kills me makes me feel alive_

* * *

Standing on a windy beach in Norway, he’s worried that things will fall apart before they begin.

They don’t. That happens later.

The first few days unfold surprisingly well. Though, looking back, he wonders if this was the denial stage of the grieving process.

Everything is new. He’s got human eyes, human hormones, and a new sympathetic appreciation for the human condition. He wants to try everything at once in a scientific analysis of his new circumstances. He wants… He wants Rose, in ways he’d never allowed himself to contemplate before. And he takes her; on the floor of the front hallway of their flat, in the kitchen, the elevator at Torchwood, a narrow alleyway behind their favorite pub.

There’s snogging and shagging and sweet lovemaking. Quickies and angry sex and hours of just exploring with fingers and lips and tongues. All of it is _Rose_  and with her beside him again anything seems possible. He tries every food he can get his hands on. Picks up hobbies and puts them down as often as he changes clothes. Musical instruments, gardening, painting, carpentry. He even knits a few scarves before he drops a stitch and gives up.

Everything is an adventure.

Until it’s not.

He’s kept himself so busy he doesn’t realize just how  _slowly_  time is passing. It’s only been a few weeks. He’s met the entire Torchwood staff, tried every worthwhile restaurant within a realistic distance, and eliminated most diversions to occupy his free time. The Doctor has caught up with himself. He’s bored. And with this restlessness comes unease.

What is he going to do with another fifty years of mortal existence? His time with Rose is slipping away all too quickly and yet the ages spent on futile minutiae keep dragging on. The urge to run is still burning in his blood. These days of growing stagnant are weighing on him.

He wants  _more_. For himself. For Rose. For their life together.

His hands find the TARDIS coral almost magnetically. Funny, how he didn’t pay it much mind until now. The honeymoon phase of the metacrisis over, the Doctor spends nearly every waking moment devoted to stimulating the coral’s growth. With Donna’s advice, the initial readings seem promising, but there’s something missing.

The experiments keep failing. He tries, gives up, and tries again, until there’s no will left in him. Their TARDIS will never grow — the coral is dead; or near enough. It’s hopeless.

Rose, his beautiful, perfect Rose, takes it all in stride. She recognizes his defeat before he can even think of broaching the subject with her. It’s an ordinary Saturday when she brings home the motorcycle. Shiny and new with lacquered chrome that’s not-quite-TARDIS blue.

Suddenly, the world opens up again, just a bit more. There’s backpacking trips in the Highlands, rock climbing in Wales, and white water rafting on the River Tryweryn.

It’s unclear exactly when Rose shifts from  _encouraging_  to  _enabling_.

Adrenaline junkie. That’s the colloquial term. It sounds harmless; though he supposes everything starts out that way.

Suddenly he’s taking the bike just a little bit faster, pushing just a bit harder, accepting Torchwood assignments just a bit scarier. He gets up earlier, stays out later, and his new never-back-before-dawn schedule sees him sleeping on the couch more often than not.

Rose doesn’t ask. He doesn’t tell. They see one another more at work but less at home. When they do fight, it’s almost always over the team members he’s put in harm’s way with his latest foolhardy decision in the field. She knows something is wrong, but she doesn’t own him and she doesn’t want to. So she waits. Waits for him to let her in, the way she did when he was the designated driver and their home was among the stars.

They make up by making love. Rose moves beneath him, above him, around him; but he wonders if Rose is really there with him at all. He knows the feeling. Part of him is here but part of him is out there too, chasing the next thrill.

He still loves her, of course. Sometimes, he thinks, maybe he loves himself just a little bit more. And it’s a novel feeling, after so many centuries of self-loathing. To have such unapologetic selfishness… the relief is almost as much as the rush he gets from testing the boundaries of his newfound mortality.

The Doctor rationalizes, in his more lucid moments. He’s testing. All of this is just a natural reaction to his sudden change in physiology. He’s always loved danger. Now, he craves it. He accepts all the trouble life throws at him and when fate doesn’t deliver he begins to seek it out.

It’s that impulse. So human. That mad little voice saying, go on. It manifests in bar fights borne from too many late nights drinking the strongest whisky a Torchwood consultant’s salary can buy and ends with a bad night at the underground boxing match in a parking garage beneath what would have been Henrik’s in another universe.

A severe concussion, dislocated jaw, four broken ribs, and a hairline fracture along the ulna. The high cost of feeling alive. And Jackie always said it would be the motorcycle.

The doctors say it’s a good thing Rose found him; left alone his prognosis would have been much worse. Doctors are idiots. But in this case, he has to admit they’re probably right.

He could handle it if she yelled. If she just screamed and shouted that would have been fine. He’d have ranted right back at her blow for blow, crafting half-arsed arguments from the frayed tendrils of disjointed thoughts.

It’s the quiet that kills him.

Rose barely says a word but her despondent visage speaks clearly. He’s read many expressions from her face before — fear, anger, love, hope — but never complete and utter disappointment. She looks so tired… and he’s sure she’s given up on him.

His recovery is a blur of minimal eye contact and tense silence. But through it all she cares for him thoroughly and lovingly. Her complete devotion to his every need only emphasizes his neglect of  _them_.

When he finally gathers the courage to apologize, she knows he means it because he waited. He feels like maybe it’s the first thing he’s done right since taking her hand at Bad Wolf Bay.

They come together in a passionate embrace that’s healing even though he’s not yet fully healed. It hurts but he doesn’t tell her to stop. This is the pain that reminds him he’s alive. There’s no point living if it’s not beside her.

Things return to a semblance of normalcy — or, the Pete’s World equivalent. He sleeps in Rose’s bed but he’s forbidden from babysitting Tony for the moment; possibly indefinitely. In fact, he rarely sees the Tylers anymore. Rose visits the mansion by herself. It’s not that he’s uninvited so much that there’s an unspoken understanding that they want to see their daughter alone. They worry and they want to gauge her emotional state without him around to color her answers.

One would think he’d be happy. In the beginning, he’d have cheered over an iron-clad excuse to avoid domestic time with her family. But then he remembers that Christmas, so long ago now, laughing and smiling with Rose, Jackie, and Mickey in a sense of welcome and belonging he’d only dreamed of for so many years.

If the pinnacle of his existence is adventure, the culmination of Rose’s life is her family. She’s always been a compassionate being, accepting any and all who come to her — namely, himself. She’s given him more chances than he deserves and he’s determined to make good on his promise. On both his promises: together and forever.

They both agree he’s better off not working for Torchwood. He takes on a position as a lecturer in physics at King’s College. On the side, he finds a new obsession to occupy his big part Time Lord brain. He’s no stranger to the future and it’s not just alien tech that advances the forward march of progress.

There are little inventions — nothing revolutionary, but dead useful things that companies will pay top dollar to profit on. Solutions to his own frustrations with everyday domestics. The Doctor’s secret project. It’s safe; it’s healthy. It’s penance. He’s going to give Rose Tyler the world and he wants it to be shining when he hands it over.

Still at Torchwood, Rose works long hours but she doesn’t seem unhappy. She jokes about saving up for a big vacation in the new year. She can’t give him the stars but she’ll give him this world, if she can. He can appreciate the sentiment.

Christmas is coming. Hard to believe they’ve only been back here less than six months. Hard to believe how much he’s fucked up in that short time. It was a rocky start, but none of that matters now. This life isn’t perfect but it’s theirs; his one shot at true happiness with Rose and he won’t give up until he’s got it right.

He squirrels away royalties from his products that have launched in the consumer market. The Doctor isn’t likely to overtake Vitex any time soon, but it’s enough.

Rose is wary, but allows him to use one of his ties to blindfold her. He can see her trying to map out the turns in her head but once they leave the city proper she gives up guessing where they’re going.

The Doctor leads her from the car. Asphalt gives way to gravel then soft grass beneath her feet. The tie comes off and finally he tells her to open her eyes. There’s a boxwood wreath on the door with a bright red bow and electric candles in every window. He was sure to put the lit Christmas tree in view of the window. The small country cottage is just on the outskirts of London. Far enough from her parents to give them privacy and with enough land for whatever future Rose is willing to share with him.

“I wanted our old life back,” he says. “Because that’s all I’ve ever known. But if we can’t have that, I still want a life with you. It’s bought and paid for — no mortgage. We can still take a trip, if you like, but…” He swallows purposefully. “The TARDIS was our home. A place we could always come back to. I want to give that to you. This is me, staying with you, forever.”

Rose doesn’t speak, she just stares, tears gathering in her eyes before silently falling down her cheeks. The Doctor panics. This wasn’t supposed to upset her. This was supposed to make her happy.

Finally, she turns to look at him. Her expression is guarded; other than her tear-stained cheeks he’s not really sure what she’s thinking.

She sniffs, blinks until her eyes are clear enough to see him. “I have to show you something.”

Rose takes his hand, which is a good sign, but she’s quiet which is driving him barmy.

He drove them here but she drives back. Doesn’t even ask him for directions, simply follows the signs back into London; back to streets he recognizes in a distinct path that he realizes is leading them right to Torchwood.

As they approach the building, there’s a familiar hum in the back of his mind that is wholly impossible. He says nothing because he doesn’t dare to hope. But the feeling only gets stronger and when they walk into the lab there’s a blue police box waiting there.

It’s his turn to stare. Rose allows him a moment, eyes wide and jaw slack, before offering an explanation.

“When we first crashed here, you told Mickey the TARDIS needed ‘the right kind of power.’ Energy from our universe.” She offers him a timid smile. “Didn’t you notice your suit had gone missing? I emptied the pockets. I used everything — the clothes, the sonic, and every piece of junk I found in every pocket. There were enough particles clinging to all the objects combined to start the process.”

The Doctor opens his mouth and closes it. Looks from the fledgling ship to Rose and back. Something so simple… how did he not see it? But Rose… _Rose_ …

She steps forward, touches the familiar wooden surface with an almost loving caress.

“I don’t know what stage she’s in as far as growth, she only just took this form a few days ago. I haven’t been inside yet.” Rose turns back to face him, eyes shining with tears. “It was supposed to be a surprise. I’ve been training my replacement, preparing for my resignation from Torchwood. I even called the college and talked to the department head about finding someone to take your place. I didn’t… I didn’t think you wanted to stay.”

“Rose.”

He says her name like a prayer and in the same moment he gathers her up in his arms, swinging her around joyously as he laughs. She clings to him, unable to help her smile though his reaction has her a bit baffled. He puts her down, shaking his head absently.

“‘And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house,’” the Doctor quotes. “‘But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.’”

Rose giggles. “What?”

“Is this really what you want?”

She puts her hands on his chest, one over his heart and one where the other used to be. “I want to be with you. I want us to be happy. I thought… I thought maybe I could give you the stars.”

The Doctor closes his eyes, leans his forehead down against hers. He breathes in the scent of her — Rose and stardust and time. The mingled essence of Rose Tyler and a TARDIS that’s most definitely hers and not his. She persevered when he gave up and he’s so, so unworthy but somehow this miraculous woman is his.

“I want you,” he says. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted. I want to be the man that deserves you.”

“You do. You always have. I never wanted you to change. Or to stop running. I just wanted you to take me with you. You can have it — the whole universe, at your fingertips — I just want to share it with you.”

He pulls back to look at her, flashing a smirk. “Are you asking me to come with you?”

“Maybe.” Rose graces him with a cheeky, tongue-touched smile. “Did I mention it travels in time?”

 

* * *

 

 

_Lately I been, I been losing sleep_

_Dreaming about the things that we could be_

_But baby, I been, I been prayin’ hard_

_Said no more counting dollars_

_We’ll be counting stars_


End file.
